Hand caressing thy spine in a Puritan’s love, love that’s trapped in a repressed soul. A soul that lies on a  dazzled mind and a fruit that gives back more than what it is. Fear not; for it is a phantom, a phantom the lives on the remains of a blackened past. A past that was made to look just another cloud in the sky, a sky that was full of stars except for that little cloud. That little cloud was nothing more than a spectacle. Tough; one said, impossible; said the other with a soulful frame of mind with the beckoning of the transcription that was incribed on the back of ye’ scalp said; possible in the seed of glory.

The bone of the fact spoke of words of knowledge and application. Those were words of subliminal verses and perverse from the depths of it dark and deathly pits. This was more of virtue of philosiphical greatness; this thing called love.

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